


A Centenarian and a Nonagenarian Walk into a Diner...

by turn_turn_turn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, and I am Deeply Unapologetic, and filled with pie, happy 100th birthday bucky barnes, just FYI this is unmitigated Fluff, may the next century be kinder to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 13:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10247933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn
Summary: For his birthday Bucky only asked for one thing: a slice of his favorite pie from their favorite diner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet for Bucky’s birthday, a few days late.  
> If you’re wondering where this would fit in canon just pretend Civil War never happened (because IT SO DIDN'T, cryo whatnow??) and our two favorite dweebs spent the last few years recovering and retiring in Brooklyn, where they get all the chill time I MEAN relaxation they deserve. Everything is soft and very little hurts AKA here’s a big slice of fluff in honor of my all time favorite character.  
> Happy 100th Birthday, Buckeroo. I wish you all the pie. Just like, every single pie.

For his birthday Bucky only asked for one thing: a slice of his favorite pie from their favorite diner. 

They're planning on catching a movie after, too - a matinee of a film that won some big award recently, one that Nat had assured them has beautiful cinematography and absolutely zero explosions.  

They decide to walk, their clasped hands swinging between them and the damp, uneven chill of the breeze buffeting them from all sides.  

After less than a block Bucky uses his free hand to turn up the collar of his canvas coat and ducks his head against the wind. A few tendrils of his dark hair pull loose from his bun, fanning out around his head and swiping over his face. His cheeks are splotched red with the cold and from the looks of it his nose is starting to run.  

Steve can't stop staring at him.  

Another block and Bucky groans in discomfort. "Jesus H. Christ, it's fucking freezing," he grits out, clenching his hand around Steve's in a death grip, as if he's trying to siphon off all of Steve's body heat through his palm.  

"It ain't so bad," Steve offers weakly, the chattering of his teeth belying his words.  

Neither of them likes the cold much, these days.  

"Yeah, well, it ain't _your_ birthday, pal. No wonder I've been doomed to an inauspicious life - March is the bleakest month of the whole goddamn year," Bucky grumbles, tucking his chin down into the loops of his scarf.  

Steve bumps their shoulders together in reassurance. "It really isn't so bad, Buck. We're right on the cusp of Spring - I can almost smell it."

"And I can smell you bullshitting, loud and clear. Either that or you've broken your schnoz enough times to compromise your olfactory capabilities." He leans heavily into Steve's side as they shuffle along. "Plus, you of all people couldn't understand my birthday angst - you get to share yours with goddamn Lady Liberty. Fireworks, hot summer sun, gratuitous patriotism - the whole damn shebang."

Steve shrugs. "Well that's because I'm a very special and important person, whereas you are just an average sort of Joe," he teases.  

Bucky snorts and shoves a foot in front of Steve's to trip him up.  

"Would that that were true, punk," Bucky sighs. "I'd say 'I'd give my left arm' or 'I'd kill a guy' to be just an average Joe, but, ya know, _check_ and _check_. Which just proves the ship has decidedly sailed on that front - left for England in 1943, if I recall."

They lapse into silence for a few blocks, focused on increasing the pace of their matched strides in an attempt to chase off a bit of the chill.  

They're two blocks from the diner and halfway through a crosswalk when a blue minivan stops just short of their legs, breaks screeching.  

"Hey! C'mon, ya big mook!"

"Look where yer goin', fucknut!"  

"Fuckin' eh," Bucky sighs, shaking his head slowly back and forth and resuming his stride. "You think in a hundred years New Yorkers would've learned how to fuckin' drive, but I've yet to see it."

"Mhmm," Steve agrees. "Perversely comforting, ain't it? Just another thing about this dump that hasn't changed a scrap."

"Yeah, well, if I had known this city was gunna be makin' such an effort to retain certain things I'd've cast my vote in favor of automats, not the total absence of vehicular manners," Bucky grouses.  

"Either that or the Dodgers -"

"Don’t you dare even _mention_ them to me on my fuckin' _birthday_  - goddamnit, Steven, you know better." Bucky scowls violently down at his shoes.  

Steve can't help the little fizz of mirth that bubbles up, his shoulders hitching with it. Bucky shoots him a glare.  

"Hey - how old d'ya think you would've gotten, before?" Steve asks him. "You know, if..." he trails off.  

"If what?" Bucky presses. "If you'd never let them pump you full of fancy muscle juice and gone all knight-in-shining-leotard? If I hadn't eaten shit off the side of a goddamn train? If neither of us had gone to war to begin with?"

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Fancy muscle juice?"

"C'mon pal, our history is a bona fide cornucopia of 'what ifs' - and inside each ridiculous 'if' is an even more ridiculous - it's like a shipping container full of Russian nesting dolls of dramatic possibility. You gotta give me a more specific 'if'."

"Alright. What if the war had ended before you were sent out? If you'd've stayed in Brooklyn, with me. Sans the fancy muscle juice. And definitely without the leotard. How far do you think you would've made it? A hundred years?"  

Steve doesn't ask how far he thinks _they_ would've made it; he knows there were some 'ifs' he himself never would've cracked, not without the serum.  

"Fuck no," Bucky answers, wiping his nose against his sleeve. "You know how much I love ice cream and cigarettes - I would've carked it in my fifties, no doubt. Like that silver fox from that show you love - massive coronary underneath some hot little blonde piece." He winks at Steve.

Steve cocks his head to the side. "Which show?"  

"The one with all the drunks obsessed with Pepsi Cola. You know, about that guy with the Cary Grant haircut."

" _Mad Men_?"

"That one. Except _you_ would've been my cause-of-death little blonde piece, not some secretary."

"I'm honored," Steve snorts. "So you don't think you would've settled down, gotten married? There's gotta be at least one 'what if' universe where you shack up with some cute brunette your ma introduced you to. The two of you in some three bedroom out in, say, Paramus - a coupla kids, maybe a dog, me pining to death in the apartment above the garage -"

"Hey now."  

Bucky stops in his tracks, using their clasped hands as a tether to pull Steve around to face him. He brings up his left hand to grab Steve's shoulder and looks deeply and intensely into Steve's eyes.  

" _Hey_. Absolutely not," Bucky says firmly, voice low and sincere. Steve's stomach tightens with it. "In no fucking universe," Bucky continues, "Not a single one - do I _ever_ agree to move to New fucking Jersey."

Steve barks out a laugh and turns, pulling Bucky back into forward motion down the sidewalk. "Now that I actually believe."  

The bell above the door chimes as they hurry into the diner, eager for the warm, burnt-coffee-scented air of the inside.  

They make their way toward the back of the room and sit down in their preferred booth, favored due to its status as both the most easily defensible position in the restaurant and the optimal vantage point for people-watching out the large window.

They shed their coats and place the order for their usual, plus two glasses of water and a pot of coffee to share.  

Bucky inhales the steam rolling off his mug and takes a sip. "Hey, do you think there's a universe where one of us ends up married to Sam?" he asks. "Or where _both of us_ end up married to Sam? Although that could be this universe - we've never actually asked."

"Be my guest, Buck." Steve shrugs. "But I will point out that Sam is way too classy for the likes of us. Plus, he seems to be pretty happy in his current relationship."

"True," Bucky sighs. "Sharon definitely has us beat in the class department. Damn. Though I totally whipped her at bowling last week - that could be my leg up."

When the grey-haired waitress stops by to drop off Bucky's plate of pie and Steve's milkshake, Steve smiles at her, marveling, the way he often does, at the fact that he and Buck are already decades older than she is now or might ever be.  

"Do you think any of those 'what if' universes are weirder than this one?" he asks Bucky, leaning forward to take a sip from his straw.  

Bucky swallows a massive mouthful of pie. "Weirder? I dunno. There's probably a few that'd be more welcome, for sure," he replies, a rueful smile touching his mouth. "But weirder? I couldn't say."

Steve reaches across the counter-top, grabs Bucky's metal hand in his. Bucky squeezes around his grip.  

"There is one thing I can say for sure," Bucky continues. "Even with all the what ifs - the limitless, ruthlessly dramatic possibilities of every available universe - there's no other place I'd rather be today than right here. In this ridiculous city, in this shitty diner, in this cramped booth, with this gorgeous, incredible, _perfect_ -"  

He gives Steve's hand another squeeze, holding his gaze with an expression so earnest it makes Steve instantly suspicious.  

"- Piece of pie," Bucky finishes, a devious smirk lighting up his face like a Broadway marquee.  

Steve scowls and pulls his hand back, crossing his arms over his chest. "A hundred years around the block hasn't made you any less of a jerk, huh? Asshole." He grabs his milkshake and takes another sip.

"Now, Stevie, I think you're being a little hypocritical here." Bucky waves his whip cream covered fork toward the straw in Steve's mouth. "You're certainly givin' that peanut butter milkshake more enthusiastic attention than you _ever_ show to my di-"

"You know just because we _can_ talk about our intimate relationship in public these days, doesn’t mean we _should_ ," Steve interrupts.  

Bucky raises an eyebrow but doesn't bother turning to survey their surroundings. "Thirteen civilians within the 520 square feet of the dining area, plus two more in the kitchen," he says levelly. "Median age of thirty-four altogether, with no one under the age of eighteen, and no less than four individuals old enough to recognize Reagan from his acting days - I guarantee they've all heard tell about blow jobs before this conversation, Stevie. Doubt it phases them a lick. Heh, get it – a _lick_?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "I suppose - but it's still pretty crass talk for the dinner table. This is exactly why Sam won't marry us."  

"Again, we won't know that for sure unless we _ask_ \- not my fault you're too chickenshit."  

"I'm the chicken? You might talk a big talk, Barnes, but it took you until the night before you shipped out to admit you had a crush on _me_ – and I was both a little slip of nothing and clearly already gagging for you, so." Steve shrugs again.  

Bucky smirks, but his eyes are warm with more than humor this time. "You were never nothin' to me, sweetheart. And that was more than just a crush."  

The frankness of his tone sets a flutter in the center of Steve's chest. Steve smiles back at him, letting Bucky see the slight blush he knows must be tinting his cheeks; his own way of being honest.  

They bask in the warmth of the moment for a few minutes before Steve leans forward, deciding to pick their teasing back up with a lightly grumbled, "Yeah, well, you're the one who suggested you'd choose a slice of pie over me. Your flattery is a little lopsided." He reaches to swipe a finger through the dregs of melted cream on Bucky's plate.  

Bucky snatches Steve's wrist before he can pull it back, wrapping his own mouth around the sugary mess on the tip of Steve's finger. He pulls off with a wet 'pop' that makes the bottom of Steve's stomach drop out.  

"Mmm mmm," Bucky moans theatrically. "Ninety-eight years stale and you're still as sweet as ever, doll."  

Steve scoffs and tries to pull his hand free. Bucky doesn't let him; he intertwines their fingers, his thumb rubbing gently over Steve's knuckles.  

Bucky nods down at his messy plate. "This pie and I do have a special relationship, I'll admit, but it's got a downside you don't."

"What's that?"

Bucky grins. "A shelf life."

Steve lets the corner of his mouth twitch up at the joke, but his chest twinges with it - with that strange, elated fear they both share, another garishly colored layer they might have to uncover, sometime down the line.  

"We might," Steve offers, his voice low, tone deliberately light.  

"All evidence to the contrary." Bucky grins again, but the metal fingers of his left hand twitch slightly against the linoleum of the tabletop. He turns to look out the window, watching the passersby bustle from curb to curb, the sleek lines of the slowly moving traffic.  

After a long moment Bucky asks, softly, "Do you think immortals bother celebrating birthdays?"

Steve watches Bucky's eyes flick over the crowd of people on the opposite sidewalk, watches him study their faces, their easy movements. Steve watches him, and watches him, and thinks that time was always going to be a insufficient measurement for the two of them, for this thing between them.  

He hums noncommittally, then replies, "I figure they must celebrate birthdays for the same reason anyone does."

"An excuse for sugar and presents?" Bucky turns back to him, a sweet and peaceful smile brightening up his face, brightening up the whole goddamn place.

"Exactly." Steve returns the smile.  

"So whaddya say, pal." Bucky picks up his half-full water glass, angling the bottom in Steve's direction. "To the next hundred years?"  

Steve clinks the edge of his glass against Bucky's, the tiny vibration tingling through his fingers. "And to the rest of today," he murmurs.  

They allow the quiet to settle between them for another long moment.  

Eventually Bucky sits back with a groan, tossing his crumpled paper napkin onto his empty, purple-stained plate. He leans against the wall of the booth, arms brought up to rest along the top of the cushion at his back. "Questionable immortality notwithstanding, I know I'm gunna want the same thing on my two-hundredth birthday that I do today," he asserts.

"A slice of blueberry pie?" Steve guesses.  

Bucky nods in agreement. "And a hand job in the back of a dark and empty movie theater. C'mon, we'd better head over there – don't wanna miss the previews."  

Steve giggles and stands, rummaging through his pockets for the cash while Bucky shrugs his coat back on.  

"Your birthday wish is my command, Buck."

"More like _come-in-hand_  -"

"You know you might as well go lick a Midtown storm drain, all the garbage that comes outta your mouth -"

"It's not my fault you keep setting me up for such good ones! You know I can't resist -”  

"You can resist plenty, old man. Now hurry up, I know you're gunna want popcorn."  

"And Goobers."

"Might as well just chew on your own hand, since you're the biggest goober I've ever -"

"You ain't funny, punk."

"Right back at ya, jerk."

As soon as they reach the sidewalk Bucky grabs Steve's hand again.  

Steve adjusts the grip so their fingers interlock, and thinks - though he might have another year and four-odd months to go, himself - that a hundred years is no time at all.  

They could use another century, together. Maybe even two.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
